


Apparitions

by coveryourheads (rsk110)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Boondock Saints Characters in past/background, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Drug Use, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7556737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsk110/pseuds/coveryourheads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl is the front man for band Cherokee Rose with a troubled past.<br/>Glenn idolizes Daryl and is a troubled front man for his indie band.<br/>Their management puts them together.<br/>Will it be love or war?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pandorum

**-01- Pandorum**  

   

“Thank you, New York City!!  Good night!” 

He took a bow.  The screams and jeers followed him into the dressing room, the roar quaking the walls and floor even as he shut the thick door behind him.  He let out a long sigh, ripping a neatly folded towel from the rack, burying his face into it. 

    

The third encore was intense, even with the dwindled crowd.  _Cherokee Rose_ rarely did a second encore.  This would be their second _third_ encore in their history of touring, in the past twelve years together.  The audience who had remained after their second encore, just in case, went wild.  Rick sat down on a ready stool with his acoustic guitar, Shane beside him on bass.  They tuned up as Andrea and Carol walked onto the stage.  People screamed when they saw Carol hold up her violin to the mic instead of going behind the keyboards, Andrea settling on the other side of Rick with her cello, not her guitar.  They all knew what song they would perform when their drummer, _Cherokee Rose_ 's leader Merle, stepped out with just a snare, drumsticks in his back pocket.  The band members made eye contact, smiling, getting comfortable.  When Daryl took a step on to the stage, he was deafened.  He took a moment to squeeze his brother Merle’s shoulders in a collective thanks to the band, before standing in front of the mic stand.  He had to sweep back his hair, sweaty and sticking to his face and neck.  After clearing his throat, he looked around to his bandmates, who all nodded at him with understanding smiles. 

“I think you all know what song we’re about to play for you guys.  Being in NYC is always special to me, for various reasons,” Daryl started, pausing when the cheers drowned out his words.  So he didn’t try to finish his thoughts.  Everything felt muffled and drowned out, mostly in a good way, some bad.  So he simply said, “ _Pandorum_.” 

Merle took the cue, tapping out a steady solid beat on the snare.  Rick and Carol played the first notes together, Andrea plucking out the baritone notes on the cello.  Daryl shut his eyes to let the sad, space-like melody surround him, lift him up into the dark sky of the outdoor arena.  Shane strummed the bass, the thrum of the deep notes vibrating across the stage.  The lights hitting him made bright swirls inside his eyelids.  So Daryl put his arm over his eyes, pulling out all the strength in him to sing the first verse.  The momentary darkness inside, he could imagine the pain he’d felt back then, when he jotted this song in between lines of cocaine and bottles of Jack and Hennessey. 

 _Had you there, all along,_    
_while I floated away into the darkness,_    
_reached out,_    
_need to collapse,_    
_couldn’t tell, couldn’t ever tell…_  

Connor had punched him across his face.  Cussed him out, fist hitting him again and again, until Rocco and Romeo had pulled Connor back.  His knuckles had been bloody and raw.  Daryl had only worried about Connor’s fucking knuckles and their show the day after and if Connor would be able to play his fucking guitar.  He hadn’t thought about his own face or if his tooth was knocked loose, because he couldn’t feel his face.  He’d bent over the low table to do another line, another shot, except that his nose was bleeding something fierce and he couldn’t snort through all the snot and blood.  He had downed the Hennessey straight from the bottle instead, reaching out for a cigarette from Rocco.  Connor’s voice had been so fucking sad.  Everything had been so blurry, he couldn't remember the taste of pooled blood in his mouth but he could remember Connor's fucking voice.   _I can’t do this_ _anymore_ _, Dar_ _.  I just can’t…_  

 _There was nothing else for me,_    
_nothing there where you weren’t_ _,_    
_I was bound to this misery and pain,_    
_searing pain, crazy voices,_    
_shouts in my ears, blood in my throat,_    
_‘cause you weren’t there anymore…_  

Connor had walked out.  Romeo had gone after him.  Rocco had stayed to clean up the mess on his face, until someone more sensible and less drunk came to take his place.  It must have been Duffy; can’t remember right.  Or Dolly.  Couldn’t have been Greenly because he would have remembered the stupid jokes of his even through the haze.  He didn’t remember much after that night, except Romeo’s apology and Rocco’s hot hand on his shoulder.  Nothing until he saw Merle’s grim face in front of his. 

 _Thought I had wings,_    
_spinning up into space,_    
_never felt so empty before,_    
_suddenly everything stopped,_    
_like a shot through the head…_    
_Shot my own face…_    
_A shot down the drain…_  

It took years.  His twenties were awful fast-forward moments through the drugs, the booze, and the crazy music played with _The_ _Saints_ , his best friends since grade school; the guys he had thought were his best friends.  Because when he woke up sober for the first time in years, he had been alone, in a sickening white room in a rehabilitation facility.  No friends, no phone calls, no music, no band, no fans, no blinding lights, no paparazzi, no one screaming his name to get his attention.  He had been so alone, not lonely, but the cleansing, the rehab and eventually the therapy all had left him feeling like a quarter of a person.  And Connor did not pick up his phone calls or replied to his emails when he had gotten access to do those sorts of thing.  Romeo told him Connor moved out to Los Angeles, and he did, too.  Rocco told him the same about Connor.  _The Saints_ were disbanded.  Daryl hadn’t a moment to agree upon it. 

 _There was nothing else for me,_    
_nothing there where you weren’t around,_    
_shot my own face, shot my wings off,_    
_swirled down back to earth,_    
_tried to crawl back to you but…_    
_you wouldn’t tell… me…_  

Therapy had him write things.  So Daryl had written things.  He had wanted his guitar and they let him.  Merle had brought her to him, his _Judy_ , and sat with him as he played a few songs.  The faculty had asked him to play for the group during a session as a part of his _share_ , so he had.  Merle had accompanied him, playing a beaten set of bongos the center had.  He played a few of _The Saints_ songs, songs everyone would have heard on the radio at least once.  People had clapped, mostly, probably, to encourage him to keep playing more than anything, but Daryl enjoyed it.  He had opened up his notebook, the remnants of the lyrics that he’d scribbled that night when Connor left, on a piece of napkin or a menu, now lost.  He had remembered only pieces of the first version.  It had been about the feeling of it, of the night, of the fast five years from being a nobody playing for quarters on the streets and sweaty subway stations, to rock stars headlining sold out shows in arenas all over the country.  The emptiness of it, the unfulfilling life it spread for him.  This song had never been practiced, no chord progressions worked out, but he had started the song, Merle creating a solid soft beat beside him. 

 _Never fell so_ _softly after soaring so high,_    
_for the need to reach back into you,_    
_for you to tell it to me…_    
_At least pull the trigger for me…_  

A few patients had sniffled when the song ended abruptly; Daryl, unable to finish it.  The light applause had felt more genuine after having poured out his heart, and yeah, it had felt like this in the damp streets.  A young woman had asked him what the song was called.  And he had blurted out, “ _Pandorum_.” 

 _Let me fly back up, let me fly…  Let me fly…_  

Daryl finally removed his arm from his eyes, squinting at the stinging brightness.  His arm was wet, but he passed it off as sweat.  The audience joined him, the repetition of ‘ _l_ _et me fly_ ’ echoing into the sky.  It felt appropriate, at least.  He didn’t have to direct the band.  Shane played his last note, letting it fade as Andrea pulled her bow up.  The guitar and violin died out, leaving Merle’s still steady snares and the spectators singing the verse, ‘ _l_ _et me_ _fly_ ’, stopping, like everyone just knew when, and Daryl’s voice in the mic ended the song with the final beat of Merle’s drum. 

 _Tell me a lie_ _..._ _please_ _…_  

    

An announcement resounded over the speakers for everyone to exit the arena in an orderly fashion to avoid injuries.  Daryl let their manager, Dale, in when he could finally hear the knocking.  Dale, an older but a veteran in managing bands, was one of the best at Greene Music Records, in the whole business some would have said.  Though at times, he missed Duffy, Dolly, and even Greenly, he would never complain about the things Dale did for him, for the band, and how far he’d come from being a tabloid story, a joke, washed up junkie, a hazard tale, to one of the most successful songwriters and recognized voices in the world.   

“You okay?”  Dale asked, handing him a bottle of cold water. 

Daryl thanked him, sitting down in one of the chairs. 

“Daryl, I know it was hard for you to play that song, but…  I’m proud of you.” 

It meant a lot to Daryl, hearing it.  Though he just shrugged it off. 

“Gotta get going.  Everyone’s mostly packed up.” 

Daryl grabbed his bag, throwing in the makeup kits, the products, and the extra clothes.  He shoved a cap over his head, shrugging into his leather jacket.  He followed Dale out, stopping to get _Judy_ in her case from one of the roadies.  The others were already inside their enormous tour bus, along with Lori, Rick’s wife and son Carl, who decided to join them during the final leg of the tour since Carl was on summer break.  Carol’s daughter Sophia was there as well, also on summer break.  They were Daryl’s family now, having been there when both of the kids were born.  They’d been playing with Merle before he joined.  He settled in the back, throwing his bag on his bunk, as the bus started towards their hotel outside the city, as they all requested for.  Dozing, as he sat between Carl and Sophia in the lounge as they chatted over him, he wanted to stop letting the song get to him.   

   

I’m getting married… 

Wow, congratulations, seriously, Connor… 

Wish I could say, I want you there… 

No, I’m happy for you, really, and…  Thanks for letting me know… 

Goodbye, Daryl…

  

   

   

   

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will definitely be added later.  
> I did not tag the Boondock Saints fandom only because I considered them to be 'past characters' and won't have too much to do with the story as it progresses.
> 
> To give you a small time frame and sounds of the bands, The Saints were 'active' between 1994-1999 and Cherokee Rose from 2004-current(2016). In my mind, The Saints sounded like a mix of Joy Division, Far, The Smashing Pumpkins, early Radiohead and the Sex Pistols. (How does that even work?) [[ Most close to Far - if you've not heard them before, they influenced a lot of the early Emo bands like Thursday (Geoff has specifically said once). First album is too good for words. There's no streaming for this album anywhere, but if you want, I'll rip and share mine. :) ]] The Saints would have played raunchy music that sounded harsh and critical of politics and the media, standing up for vigilance and human rights. They wouldn't have been accepted well into the MTV circles (think back to the popular musics of the late 90s).
> 
> Cherokee Rose sounds closest to Matthew Good/Matthew Good Band, Jars of Clay and Sigur Ros. Pandorum is specific to Daryl's final days with The Saints but the rest of their music confronts current issues and war, the 'return' of something precious and lost as the story of Cherokee Rose tells in The Walking Dead.
> 
> Title 'Apparitions' is from the song by Matthew Good Band.
> 
> I went the route of including 'articles' about the bands or social media but it defeated the purposes of the 'lyrics' and became way too much to try to jumble. So you get a really long end note as we establish the characters and story frame. This really is a love story. Rating will probably change as we progress. Huzzah.
> 
> No beta - all mistakes are mine.  
> All "lyrics" are mine as well, gathered from past written poetry or written on the spot. They're not meant to be sing-song-y as I don't know how to write musical lyrics. Please don't make fun of me.  
> (edited: so that.. this note is in the right place. you'd think after all those years of using ao3, i'd know how to do this right the first time, right? i'm an idiot.)


	2. Achilles and the Myrmidons

**-02- Achilles and the Myrmidons**  

    

He rubbed his sleepy eye with his knuckle, trying to keep awake.  It was already three in the morning.  He was on edge but he kept himself up with another cup of Keurig.  They've been laying tracks down for the past five hours but it wasn't quite there.  He was frustrated and bored and really on the edge but didn't complain.  His mind kept trekking on going out to the rec room where the studio interns and other night owls would surely be drinking something strong or smoking something to mellow out.  He hadn't done a single bump since he said he would go straight but it's always there, clinging hard, and it was very hard. 

It helped to sit among his bandmates because they steadied him the most when he needed them.  Maggie was playing on her tablet, fingers twirling with her recently cut hair.  They'd done a photoshoot for their upcoming album, a new make-over for everyone.  Glenn had scoffed at that, how their pictures were more important than their tracks, yet to be completed.  Beth was going over the tracks they did lay down over the past month, but in truth, she was dozing under her oversized headphones, one cheek over her older sister Maggie's shoulder.   

Glenn was glad for the Greene sisters, for their musical abilities and their connections, being the daughters of the president of Greene Music Records.  He had met them at a club, while he played a few songs to a small crowd, when they came up to him and asked if he wanted to jam with them.  He hadn't thought much of it until he drove his falling apart Toyota to their massive estate, after practically signing over his soul at the community gate.  It was fun, and their older brother Shawn and their dad, Hershel thought they were good, too.  They liked his songs and they pushed Glenn to do more.  Better.  Because the music industry needed new and different, they said. 

Shawn came back into the studio with sandwiches for the girls.  He had a small smile for them, as if to apologize for the late night, as any overprotective older brother would.  His lips turned grim lately when he looked at Glenn though, probably from being tired of keeping the press at bay about Glenn's habits, his partying, and the people he found himself in bed with.  But he didn't neglect to toss him one of the sandwiches.  Glenn wasn't hungry, but mumbled a small thanks.  Shawn was their producer and their only shield in Greene Music right now.  Because Hershel wanted Glenn out.  It wasn't a big secret. 

"Oh hey, new uploads on YouTube."  Maggie nudged his side. 

"I didn't do anything," Glenn mumbled into his sandwich.  He hated tuna and Shawn knew it. 

"No, it's _Cherokee Rose_."  Maggie turned the tablet so it played big, handing over one earbud. 

Glenn's mouth dropped.  The sound quality was horrible, shadows of arms and backs of heads in the bottom half of the video.  But he knew as soon as he saw Carol and Andrea with their instruments. 

"They did a third encore at the show."  Maggie informed him, having read the description and the comments. 

Glenn would have done anything to have flown to New York to see their concert, but he was stuck in Los Angeles, not willing to risk his job for going AWOL.  Thanks to the thousands of fans who were uploading pieces of the concert, Glenn could at least envision their show.  _Cherokee_ _Rose_ was amazing.  He'd always thought so.  Both bands belonged to Greene Music but Glenn felt they were on different levels.  All the members of _Cherokee_ _Rose_ were classically trained musicians, having met at Juilliard of all places, who formed a band together after graduating.  Except Daryl, their front man, who was the band's leader Merle Dixon's younger brother.  Glenn knew of Daryl since the early nineties, playing and singing for the unique mixture of modern, grunge, punk and electro sounds of _The_ _Saints_ , who had down-spiraled because of Daryl's officially 'alleged' drug use.  The band disappeared overnight.  He'd only passed by _Cherokee Rose_  once or twice, and they were so _nice_.  They never used the studios at the same time or found themselves at the Greene Music offices crossing paths.  Glenn always heralded them, especially Daryl, as being one of his biggest musical influences when asked, even more than Cobain. 

Compared to _Cherokee Rose_ , their own band, _Watch Unwi_ _nd_ , was small-time.  They'd be called Indie if they weren't labeled under Greene Music.  Music critics gave them mediocre ratings at best, and more than a handful of reporters suggested their band's existence because of the Greene sisters, listening to their songs with prejudiced ears.  They were dismissed most of the times to being too experimental, too "green", always a fun overused pun, and questioned Glenn's songwriting skills.  The worst ones were when they compared him to Daryl Dixon's writings, which never failed to make him feel like it was a personal attack on him.  Sure, he was influenced by Daryl, and dozens of other era-changing artists, but he pushed forward his own sound, his own brand when possible, not going the safe route, the pretty-boy image people carved out for him.  He suspected half of their fans only listened to their albums because he was dolled up on the cover, wearing another slinky black thing and too much eyeliner under unruly hair. 

"I can't believe they performed _Pandorum_.  It's sick."  Maggie hit the thumb up button.  She tweeted it, being the only person in the band who was allowed to use her own Twitter account.  Beth and Glenn had Shawn tweet for them most of the times. 

 _Pandorum_ was a hidden track in _Cherokee Rose_ 's self-titled first album.  When Glenn discovered it, he had been mesmerized.  He was a sixteen year old kid, carrying around a guitar the same crimson color as Daryl's infamous _Judy_ with every single _The_ _Saints_ songs on his mp3 player.  He had waited in line for three hours to purchase the special edition of _Cherokee_ _Rose_ 's first album, having read that it really was Daryl Dixon fronting the band, unlike rumors for the five years since _The_ _Saints_ disbanded.  And it was a perfect album, more so when he listened through the six minutes of silence when the last track ended, hearing the first snare beats of the hidden track.  It was honest, raw and unapologetic, only further insinuating the speculations about what caused _The_ _Saints_ to disband abruptly, cutting their tour dates short.  It had Glenn hooked, a big factor when packing up his duffel, his notebook and guitar in his little car and driving out to Los Angeles with three hundred bucks cash in his pocket. 

Now here he was, four years in, trying to record their third studio album in the same studios as Daryl and _Cherokee Rose_. 

It only made him feel more inadequate, knowing that they recorded _Pandorum_ in this very same studio (he'd asked around).  It made him shiver.  It made him itch for a bump or a shot of anything forty percent proof down his throat.  He sucked at his cooled coffee instead. 

Behind the soundproof, Tyreese threw down his sticks in frustration as Sasha shook her head at her brother.  She gave them the universal 'what now' hands in the air, before putting down her bass and following Tyreese out. 

Before Glenn could say anything, Shawn shook his head.  "I guess it's just one of those nights.  I'll take you guys home.  We'll start fresh tomorrow." 

Tyreese took the uneaten half of Glenn's sandwich, grabbing a can of beer from the cooler.  "Man, something's just not working.  Glenn, man, you got anything new for us?" 

"I need sleep," he whimpered, wrapping his arms around Maggie's waist.  He knew it pissed Shawn off, even though he'd explicitly explained that he had not a single sexual desire towards his sister, or any girls as a matter of fact.  Shawn rolled his eyes at him.  "C'mon guys.  Pack up." 

    

Glenn was not a big rock star yet and didn't own a three million dollar mansion.  He could probably afford a place on his own but their label wanted him living with Shawn who would be able to watch him.  He'd vehemently objected to that so he was living with Tyreese.  Sasha lived with the sisters which was great for them since they were the best of friends.  Tyreese was a big softy and liked to occupy the living room and the big screen, catching up on the latest television series.  He turned on that zombie drama series everyone was talking about, which Glenn was not even remotely interested in, and retreated into his room.  The apartment was decent sized, three bedrooms in case one of their managers or Shawn needed to sleep there for a very early wake-up call.  Greene Music paid for half the rent and Tyreese and Glenn split the cost of everything else.  It was still better than living on his own, Tyreese agreed, too, that they saved more money in the arrangement so no one complained.  Except there was no lock on his bedroom and bathroom doors.  Because they didn't trust him. 

Glenn shucked off all his clothes, dove into his sheets.  He wanted to sleep except that the caffeine was kicking in now.  After grabbing his notebook, he pulled up his guitar app on his tablet, not wanting to make any loud noise.  Sad, he could only reiterate _Pandorum_ in his head. 

So he thought about other things.  Tried so hard to.  Other things that did not involve a hard on and the picture cut-out of Daryl from an old Rolling Stones issue that covered  _The_ _Saints_ tour.  The cut out from when Glenn was still in middle school, magazine stolen from the dental office, was always in between the pages of his current notebook.  Daryl had shorter hair, dark and sitting mostly flat.  The hair around his nape was all out of place, what people called 'bedroom hair'.  He wore a black tank top, tight black jeans and a scowl that made people cream.  Glenn masturbated about a thousand nights to that picture, favored above others because of the expression.  Daryl was hot, young and too skinny, cheekbones to cut a room with and ice cold blue eyes to freeze them with.  Glenn idolized him, had traced the outlines of his face and contours of his body with his finger as he pleasured himself. 

His eyes and heart certainly wanted to but his body didn't oblige him tonight.  He put the picture back, turning his notebook to an empty page, playing random chords on the app through his headphones, writing any words that flowed out of his pen. 

   

 _Maybe I was made for you_  
_Specifically, just for you_  
_I'd follow you_  
_Across the vast ocean_  
_Even as a part of a whole_  
_Crawl over sandy beach_  
_Like an insignificant ant if needs be_  
_Follow that shining in your hair_  
_Dancing your dance_  
_Your lethal dance_  
_Just to have a glimpse of your smile_  
_And I'll die happy_  
_If it's for you_  
_Just to have you mourn my death_  
_Pyres piled high_  
_We're all likely to fall into the same ending_  
_Scatter into the wind as ash_  
_But I'd do it again_  
_If you look at me like that..._  

    

  

  

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a two chapter upload today.
> 
> This one's a hot mess and I hope you guys understand what in the world is going on.  
> Kinda only makes sense as Glenn's POV would probably be a sort of mess anyway.
> 
> Tagged 'drug use' is not a big part of the story, not in the way I planned out the story thus far, but I wanted to tag it just in case it's a trigger for anyone.
> 
> Watch Unwind has been active since 2012 - current (2016). They sound like a lot of the bands Anthony Green has been a part of (I love that guy), mostly Saosin (love the new album he's featured in). Glenn likes to write songs that have nothing to do with what's really going on, like imaginary stories and myths. His (my) favorite myth is the War of Troy, so he writes songs about that in the new album.
> 
> Myrmidons were created from ants, so says the myths. They are ant-men, as some would translate. Feel free to talk to me about War of Troy! Achilles is my favorite Greek 'hero'. (never ever about that trash movie Troy though, ugh)
> 
> Please leave a review! I would love to hear what you guys think of this! I've been feeling shy about posting this one up because... it's got my poetry in them (personal struggle included) so I would really appreciate any kind of feedback!


	3. Never Do It Twice in a Lifetime

**-03-  Never Do It Twice in a Lifetime**

   

The apartment was lonely.  It sat on the top floor of a prestigious condominium building.  Merle had invested his money for him when he was in _The_ _Saints_ , and more while he was in rehab.  He'd bought him some real estate in New York City because he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.  It did him good, and he owned this loft apartment as well as few other prime real estates around the city.  Merle really did good by him and he owed him everything. 

It was clean, even after being absent for the better part of the year.  All the bags had arrived before he did, sitting in the living room area, where he dropped his carry-on and laid _Judy_ down on the sofa.  He never really played _Judy_ anymore, not when he had better guitars or when he got a little too carried away and broke them to splinters.  _Judy_ was just a symbol, one of his icons.  The audience roared just as much when she made an appearance. 

He opened the battered case, laid one had over her scratched up crimson face lovingly. 

"We done real good this time, sweetheart.  Real good."  He smiled at his guitar. 

He entered his bedroom, bereft of all things other than his extra-large mattress on the floor, a lamp and an empty ashtray beside it.  The large walk-in closet hung a few suits and tuxedos he'd accumulated over the years.  Mostly empty because he didn't ever need that many clothing, wouldn't ever fill that big space with them.  Rick and Shane usually laughed at his mostly empty apartment saying he must be the humblest rock star millionaire in the world.  He had pointed at the paintings on his living room wall, a real Kandinsky, two real Rothko, a large Motherwell and a very real Chagall he had needed to add to his homeowner's insurance policy before hanging them up.  They had pointed out a lack of anything else.  MTV had shaken their heads at his apartment, even though they had begged him for months to film inside.  There was nothing shiny in the corners, no fancy sports cars in his reserved spaces in the garage (just his motorcycle and a pickup truck as old as _Judy_ ), no wall to wall arrangement of fancy footwear or hanging designer guitars.  Sofa, coffee table and _Judy_ , a kitchen with surprisingly well stocked appliances (at least MTV appreciated that) and a bedroom that looked like he was squatting.  Management offered an interior designer's dream Manhattan apartment to be filmed as his apartment for the show, but he'd declined.  Take me as I am, he had thought.  Ended up pointing a finger lewdly at both of them. 

He lay down, appreciating the clean sheets under his tired back.  Lit a cigarette and watched the smoke waft up towards the ceiling. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket with a message. 

A tweet, actually, which he did not set up notifications for. 

Maggie Greene @maggreeneunwind: Check out our latest single release on our ytube channel yall. #AchillesUnwind    
Maggie Greene @maggreeneunwind: New album to drop in a week! Excited?! #AchillesUnwind   
Glenn Rhee @glennunwindsyou: @maggreeneunwind: Hell yeah! Love you all #AchillesUnwind 

Daryl didn't use twitter the way these kids used these social media.  He liked Instagram, only because all he had to do was take a picture once in a while with a vague emoji caption and his followers liked them.  He didn’t remember following any of the guys from the band _Watch_ _Unwind_ , although he knew about them.  He knew about all the bands in the Greene Music’s roster, tried to keep up with their latest releases, when he can.  The PR department must have set it up for him but had forgotten to turn the notification off for him.  He would, if he knew how, so he let it be for now.  He clicked the link in their tweets. 

It was a YouTube video, uploaded just a few hours ago.  They'd been working hard at their third album, according to Duffy. 

Duffy started working at Greene Music just a few months before he signed the contract.  He managed _The_ _Saints_ after all, and was a great asset for the company.  He was co-producing records for new bands now, always up to date on the latest trends, the latest social network music stars.  They caught up from time to time when Daryl was in Los Angeles, sometimes joined by Dolly and Greenly.  Rocco was in Nevada or something, but Romeo squeezed in for a beer or two before hurrying back to wherever he had come from.  Romeo was a notable actor now, featured in a few movies every year, appearing in a long-running television detective show.  It was always good to see them, any of them, but they all avoided talking about Connor. 

And Daryl never asked. 

_Tell it to the waters_  
_Tell it to the sea_  
_Tell them all your dreams_  
_You don’t want to be a superhero…_

The video was dark, all of them dressed in these black things, the lead singer revealing too much skin.  Greene Music rarely supported acts that did the whole pop, tiny clothing, selling sex things.  They wanted to produce good music, foremost, not images.  Daryl narrowed his eyes at the video on his phone screen.  The color remained dark, the camera only focusing in and out intentionally, to each person of the band.  The singer was at the front, head tilted with his hair falling over his heavy-lined eyes, singing into the mic.  Behind him, a little to the left of the screen was Maggie, the guitarist.  Daryl knew her and her sister Beth, on her synthesizer behind Maggie, because they were Hershel’s daughters.  Behind Beth was the bassist, her stare scary yet vulnerable, managing to be beautiful and dejected at the same time.  At the end of the row was the drummer, whom Daryl knew to be the bassist’s older brother, but he couldn’t recall his name.  The camera kept all five in the frame but focused on only one of them at a time, the lights never changing dramatically, only a glowing spotlight over their heads and hands. 

_Tell them you want to die forever_  
_Tell them you don’t want to be remembered_  
_Tell them, scream it out,_  
_Show them you can be worse than you are…_

Daryl couldn’t take his eyes off the video.  And the kid, tilting his head side to side, one hand cradling his mic.  Were they performing this live? 

_You can’t live two lifetimes_  
_You aren’t ready to make the choice of your life_  
_If I could I would hold your hand through it all_  
_You don’t have to belong to the stars…_

\---    

   

“So far so good.  People are reacting positively to the single.  They love the video and people want to know if it’s really live.”  Shawn tapped on his tablet enthusiastically.  “There’s been thousands of pre-orders already.  I’m…”  He lifted his eyes to his sisters, to Tyreese and Sasha, and ended on Glenn.  “I’m really proud of you guys.” 

Maggie prompted a group hug.  Glenn really smiled. 

“We have a few interviews lined up.  Most of them are going to be here, but we’re going to New York on Friday.  MTV wants you guys to perform live in front of fans on the day of the album release next week.” 

The girls squealed.  Tyreese squeezed Glenn’s shoulder.   

Shawn sat them down to discuss their schedule in earnest for the next month.  It was going to get busy with promotions.  There was some talk about performing live on a few late night talk shows.  Glenn covered his eyes with his hands, suddenly dizzy from all the information.  He hadn’t expected this, not when the previous two albums had been mostly ignored by the general public.  The latest music video hit close to seven hundred thousand on the first day.  It still didn’t feel real. 

“I’m gonna throw up,” Glenn mumbled.  He left the concerned faces, stumbling inside the small bathroom down the hall.  He dry-retched for a few minutes, heaving for air.  The rooms seemed to close in around him, making breathing harder.  Fuck the rules, he thought, pulling out his pack of cigarettes.  He lit the end, sucking in the smoke only to cough it back up.  His hands were shaking visibly.  He needed…  He wanted…   

_You don’t have to_  
_Fit into their desires_  
_Their wars, their greed_  
_Lose your life, lose your love_  
_Lose all the friends you’ve ever known_  
_Tell the waters to remain still_  
_You don’t belong to the stars…_

Shawn came to find him just as he tossed the remainder of the cigarette into the toilet.  Glenn knew that Shawn saw it, and didn’t comment, and pulled the lever to flush blindly. 

“It’s not what you think,” Glenn choked out.  It stung his eyes.  “I’m really trying, Shawn.  I’m trying!” 

“I know,” Shawn bent down to his level where he sat crouching against the wall.  “I know you are.” 

_Tell the sea your secret_  
_That you know your fate_  
_And you’re choosing to die anyway_  
_Tell the stars_  
_And beg to remain_  
_One more day…_

“You ready?”  Shawn helped him up. 

“Thanks,” Glenn muttered.  He washed his hands and face with cold water.  He didn’t want to be a mess.  He didn’t want to sneak out and score a bump and hide himself in a closet somewhere and drift off.  He really didn’t. 

“I do have some really great news, though.  I think you’ll like it.” 

\---   

   

“Touring with who?” Daryl said, confused.  He put the knife he’d been cutting up carrots with down on the cutting board, leaning back on the counter.  There was no other food in the refrigerator except baby carrots and a can of soda.  Daryl studied takeout menus for an hour but could not decide on what to order.  So carrots it was. 

Dale sounded enthusiastic.  There were voices in the background, children.  “You had a fantastic tour, and after the _Pandorum_ performance were uploaded, people keep inquiring when the next tour will be.” 

“I fucking hate the internet,” Daryl mumbled into the phone.  “We spent eight months touring.  You want to do it again?” 

“Why not?” 

“I…  don’t care.  But…  they all got family.  They don’t get to spend enough time at home.”  Daryl meant his band. 

“I already talked to them.  They’re all in.” 

Daryl cursed, running his hand through his hair.  “I’m never doing _Pandorum_ again.” 

Dale wasn’t fazed.  He probably knew Daryl would say that.  “Hear me out.  The tour won’t start for another four months.  And it’s going to last only three months.  Major cities, big venues.  _Watch_ _Unwind_ will open up, until they go on their own tour.  Think of it as…  Encore performances.” 

“So we’re just helping these kids out, is what you’re trying to say.” 

“Tour’s being announced tomorrow.” 

“Did I even have a choice in this?” 

“Merle thought it was a good idea.” 

Daryl shuffled through the cabinets, looking for coffee grounds.  The can was empty.  Going to the grocery store suddenly became a top priority.  “What about…  what I want?” 

The other end of the line remained quiet except for background noise for a good minute. 

“Well, what do you want?” 

His eyes landed on a painting on his wall.  The daunting slabs of dark shapes over the warm color of the background, the masculine strength and the tender rendering of the artist’s imagination, wrenched his heart when he saw it first. 

“I would like to not make the same mistake twice,” Daryl spoke before he could stop himself.  Dale had that kind of effect on him.  The old man was probably quirking one of his brows at the phone right now.  “I’ll fly out to LA tomorrow.” 

“What’s the hurry?” 

“There’s nothing to eat here.” 

Daryl promised to text him his flight information but he probably won’t.  He texted Merle though, after booking his flight, asking him to pick him up at the airport. 

Everything in the apartment, no matter how many things he threw out or replaced or destroyed, still reminded him of Connor.  

   

   

   

   

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's shorter than I thought... sorry. I have reasons --- below.
> 
> The one painting in Daryl's apartment is based on this one: http://www.christies.com/lotfinder/paintings/robert-motherwell-the-wedding-5624730-details.aspx  
> Robert Motherwell is my painting spirit animal. 
> 
> Other than that.. I had most of this written like 2 weeks ago, but then 2 weeks ago, I kinda sprained my dominant hand's index finger and squeamish-warning -- snapped off the middle fingernail in half, horizontally -- while getting a box out of my closet top-shelf. I dropped it but stupid me tried to catch it and so it happened. The same evening, I had nothing to eat but carrots (life imitates art? or the reverse) and totally the wrong dressing. Both things triggered my depression like crazy and I was missing my ex really bad but, BUT, I didn't depressed-dial-text or anything. I just had a gimpy hand for the past 2 weeks. The little splint is gone, still a bit swollen and sore but now I'm back to being a normal functioning person, more or less. I bought a lot of food the next day and the right dressing and more fucking carrots. And the largest box of band-aids for my middle fingernail. It's still unpleasant and gross and I don't like looking at it. It tingles.
> 
> Anyway, that's why I didn't update when I wanted to, because I couldn't type fast. I just spent a lot of time reading unwholesome but so so good bdsm fics (not surprising, cuz I do that when I'm depressed) and not sleeping well. I hate to be so depressing but I didn't take good care of myself for about a week. I'm not healthy, mentally, probably physically, cuz I drop weight like crazy when I'm like this... I'm just a big ball of mess, who try to keep it together, and am successful most of the times, but get triggered for a few days from the dumbest things and then I shimmy back up to my usual just-weird self. I'm sorry for being unhealthy but I wanted to share anyway. (like when I dropped writing altogether in 2014, yeah, that was depression, plus other things but that's a story for another day i guess) I do get better, though, so no worries, seriously. No heavy boxes and weekly grocery shopping, I promise. And I'll be posting the next chapter soon, too. (16'08'11)


End file.
